


beckoning light

by crackthesky



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Self-Indulgent, Serious Injuries, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22221301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackthesky/pseuds/crackthesky
Summary: the wisps have never led you astray, but you did not expect them to lead you to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 82
Kudos: 405
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

There is a light in the forest.

It is not a torch beyond the branches, you know. The light doesn’t flicker and undulate the way a consuming fire would, and it’s soft at the edges, like gleam of the moon streaming through the clouds. It is a familiar sight.

Dusk has not yet fully descended; there is a glow to the sky still, a kiss of orange and pink against the encroaching night. 

The light in the forest moves, an odd sort of bobbing motion, and you heave a sigh. “No,” you tell the wisp, as though it can hear you from inside your home. The wisps have spent many an eve dancing at the edge of the clearing, just peeking out from behind the trees and beckoning, but you have no qualms with letting them be lonely sometimes. 

The wisp - one of the bigger ones, heavy with light, like the rounded belly of the full moon - pulsates. You pause. It pulsates again, more rapidly this time.

“Fuck,” you say, and scramble for the trousers you’d left draped over the bed when you’d changed for the night. You pull them on as quick as you can, not bothering with a real shirt, just haphazardly tucking in the nightshirt you’re wearing. You make fast work of your boots as well, tugging the well-worn leather up over your bare feet, knowing it may well rub your skin raw. 

Your cloak, your dagger, they fall into place in a whirlwind of movement, and then you are out in the chill of the settling night. Asha plunges out of the small garden by your home - half-wild, the sighthound is loathe to come inside while there is still light in the sky and you suspect she’s been harrying the partridges nesting in the back of the clearing - her powerful haunches making quick work of catching up to you.

Together, the two of you hurtle into the forest’s edge, dipping around saplings and tangles of old, old roots. The wisp flitters in front of you, darting along the path that only it knows, and you follow as best you can. The forest floor is slippery still, though the last rain was a few days ago, but you have long learned to keep your balance. Here and there, as you draw close to it, the wisp drops out of sight, and your stomach always drops with it as the forest goes dark around you, barely lit by what dying light filters through the canopy. Then the wisp flashes to life ahead of you once more, marking the path.

You are panting by the time you break into the clearing that the wisp is hovering in. You take in the horse, docile now, but with hoof prints all around it that indicate she had been wildly frightened earlier, and see no rider. The wisp flutters beyond the clearing, weaving and wavering.

“Stay,” you tell Asha. You do not need to tell her to guard; she settles near the horse, her muscles rippling with barely contained energy. You slip out of the clearing.

It is not long before you find the rider. His white hair shines almost silver beneath the light of the wisp, marking his place even though he is tucked into a small hollow between the roots of one of the large trees. He has managed to drag his large frame partially upright, but his eyes are closed, and there is a great gash across his chest, blood flowing from it in small pulses. From the pale sheen of him, he has been losing blood steadily. 

“Shit,” you mutter. “Shit.” In your flurry, you had neglected to take even the most basic medical supplies. You are an idiot twice over, you suppose, but nothing can be done now.

You settle onto the roots he is propped against, and as you reach for him, you register the brute power of his form. He is built formidably. Formidable, however, has never deterred you, and there is often softness to be found beneath it, no matter how slight. You are intent on gauging his wound - this close, you can see that it is nastily edged, flesh torn ragged instead of cleanly cleaved from a sword’s edge, and you hope that he has left a corpse in another part of the forest, because you could not defend against something able to do this - and just before your fingers rest against his skin, he moves.

He catches your wrist. His large hand encircles your wrist entirely. The grip is strong, just on the edge of bruising. In spite of the situation, you flash upon what it would be like to have that large hand between your legs, prising your thighs apart - because, as Hadrian often tells you, you are shameless - before you glance up to meet his gaze.

 _Ah_ , you think. _Hello, Witcher._

“Live or die?” you say, your voice mild.

His brow - gleaming with sweat, with patches of blood and dirt rubbed into his skin - furrows. His grip tightens. 

“I cannot help you without my hand,” you tell him. You wiggle your fingers at him, the very tip of your middle finger brushing against his leather armor.

He considers you for a moment, those amber eyes keenly picking you apart, and then drops your wrist. 

You shrug off your cloak. It’s a poor replacement for supplies, but it is all you have. You fold it until it is a decently thick square, and press it against the gash. The Witcher’s chest heaves, but only a small hiss of breath indicates the pain. You wrap your hand around his. Gently, you press it to his chest, to the rudimentary bandage you’ve created. “Hold it as tightly as you can,” you say, even though he has done so from the moment you placed his hand there.

For a moment, you think you see a gleam of something cross his handsome, stoic face. It might be irritation, and you cannot help the smile that flickers to life across your lips. 

“Asha,” you call quietly.

The hound breaks through the brush with a bound. The Witcher tenses at the noise, but you lean to the side just enough that he can see her. Once he knows what has made the sound, his golden gaze returns to you. This evaluation is different. You pay it little mind as Asha noses against you, her blocky head pressing against your side, the warmth of her seeping through your thin shirt.

“Get Hadrian,” you murmur. She perks up, her tail wagging. You click your fingers twice, and she slinks into a predator’s pose once more. “Go.”

Asha takes off like an arrow flying from a bow. You return your attention to the Witcher and place your hand over his, adding your own strength to the pressure against the wound. He grunts. It’s a gravelly sound, reverberating through his chest. His hand is warm underneath yours, but he shifts his hand lower after a moment, out from under your touch. You do not comment, only push your own hand higher to give him more space from your skin.

“Can you stand, Witcher?” you ask. You are not sure what you will do if he cannot; you are not strong enough to get him to the horse alone, let alone on top of it.

He takes a moment. “Maybe,” he grates. His voice reminds you of river rocks tumbling against each other.

You pull back from him. “We’ll try.” True night is coming, settling over the forest like a blanket, and you know that you are running low on time.

If the Witcher has thoughts about your use of we, he doesn’t indicate it. You’re not sure he indicates much. Still, he does not protest when you slide deeper into the hollow with him, shuffling against his side and lifting his arm so that it drapes over your shoulder. He’s chilled against you. The blood loss, you think. You aren’t sure how he’s survived this long.

“Fuck,” he says as you push to your feet, his fingers tightening on your shoulder. He’s heavy. Despite his wound, he carries a good bit of his own weight. You can feel his powerful thigh flexing against you. You brace him with everything you’ve got, winding one arm around his waist, careful to avoid the tail end of his laceration. The movement seems to open the wound again, blood blooming in crimson patches through your cloak. He presses harder against the fabric. You think you hear another curse tumble from his lips.

Between the two of you, you manage to stagger back to the clearing. His horse nuzzles against him as you draw close. The Witcher’s fingers flex on your shoulder. You pat at the mare’s neck with one hand.

Getting him up on the horse is a struggle. By the end of it, your nightshirt is sticking to your skin, wet with sweat. You shiver in the night air. The Witcher looks worse for the wear. You suck at your teeth, trying to decide how best to ride with him. He’s broad enough that you would have difficulty peering around him, but his fingers had been clumsy as you had tried to get him on the horse. He may not be able to keep a good grip on you. Still, it seems the better option. You keep a hand on him as you mount up, wary of the slight sway of him.

“Hold tight,” you warn him. “And do not dare fall asleep on me.”

He grunts an acknowledgement. His arms wrap around you - you think you hear a hiss of pain - and if the strength of him is diminished by the wound, you cannot tell. The band of his arms is steel around you, his fingers biting into the flesh of your hips. It should perhaps hurt, but it does not bother you.

The wisp flits back into view as you gather the reins. The Witcher is leaning heavily against you now, his chest flat against your back, a solid wall against you. You can feel the wet of his blood starting to soak through. His breath stirs against you, warm and slow. You can just see a few strands of white hair flowing over your shoulder. 

The wisp bounces forward, and you guide the horse after it. She’s a nimble thing, placid and unbothered by your inexperienced guidance as you try to learn the rhythm of her. The wisp floats near, just beyond you in the distance. Always guiding. The light stirs the Witcher into straightening in the saddle.

“A wisp?” he rasps. One hand comes free from around your waist. He reaches for the reins, but you evade him as best you can. He can’t quite manage to get the reins. That large hand envelopes your wrist instead. A weaker grip than earlier. Something you might even be able to shake off if you tried hard enough. “You cannot mean to follow.”

“I can and I do,” you say.

“If you wanted me dead,” he says dryly, “you should have just left me back there.” 

“The wisps have never lead me astray.”

He grunts, reaching for the reins once more. “They never lead to anything good.”

“They led me to you,” you say.

That gives him pause, you think. His grip on your wrist loosens. You are more and more aware of the spreading damp against your back. You spur on the mare. The wisp picks up its pace as well.

He is leaning heavily against you once more. You try to glance back at him, but with his form draped over you, it’s hard to make out his face. To see if his eyes are open or shut.

“Do not sleep,” you say.

He grunts.

“I mean it.” 

He does not make another noise. You jostle him as gently as you can, and are rewarded with another grunt.

“If you’re going to sleep, Witcher,” you say, “you had best give me your name so I know what to put on your tomb.”

He shifts against you. “Geralt of Rivia,” he finally says.

You blink. _Oh_ , you think. Even you know that name.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure,” you murmur, after giving him your own name. “But I do hate to lie.”

He huffs against your back.

You talk at him over the pound of the mare’s hooves. He is quiet the whole time, save for a few gravelly hums, but he shifts behind you when you speak to him, and you use that to your advantage. If he sleeps, you know, even Hadrian might not be able to save him. You talk at him until the horse breaks through to the forest’s edge. The wisp burns out once you can see the gaps in the trees. It has done more than its part, you know, had flared bright enough to hurt at a few points along the path, something you have long thought might be an odd form of protection for something lurking beyond your sight. 

Getting Geralt off the horse is as much of a trial as getting him on was. Still, you manage it and stumble through the door with him. You settle him upright, so you can look at his wound in the light shed by the fireplace. He grunts. He’s wan in the firelight, sweat beading on his brow. You loosen his armor as best you can around the cloak before you have to peel it away. He winces when you do, but only a bit of blood wells in the gash.

Geralt’s chest is as broad as the rest of him. In another setting, you think, you would be glad to map it out with questing fingers. Instead, you scoop water from the bucket by the hearth with a wooden cup and kneel before him. You flush the wound out carefully, sending rivulets of watery blood running down his chest. 

“Fuck,” he grits out.

You pay him little mind, using cup after cup of water until the wound is clear of dirt and debris. The water runs pink down your arms, dripping from your elbows to dampen your trousers as well. 

Your touch is careful but firm. You can feel those eyes on you - golden and molten in the dancing firelight - as you do not shy away from him. You keep your fingers off the raised shine of his scars, focus only on the sundered flesh. 

There is little you can do beyond rinsing the wound. Healing is not your strength, and not for the first time, you consider that you should learn more. You have salves that Hadrian has gifted you throughout the years, but you often forget which is what, and you know that some of them have more poisonous aspects that you would not want on an open wound. You gather a clean nightshirt and fold it. Like your cloak, you lose it to Geralt’s wound, as you press it into place over the cleaned gash. The blood is less now, but with the amount he might have lost, you would like there to be none. 

This time, you do not bother to tell him to hold it in place. He presses it hard against the wound. His chest rises and falls more heavily now, and you wonder at how much pain he is enduring. 

“Here,” you tell Geralt, handing him a wooden cup, this water scooped from the cauldron by the fire. “Drink.”

He drinks deeply. You retrieve the cup when he’s done and fill it once more, this time with ale. It will help with the pain, you hope. 

“You chose an unusual way to get a woman out of her clothes,” you tell him. Honestly, it’s a miracle that you hadn’t needed to peel off your nightshirt in the woods. He pauses mid-swallow before gulping the mouthful down. Still, you think he is amused, think it shows in the softening of his tight fist, think there might have been the slightest tilt to his lips. You wonder what it would take to make him laugh.

Asha bays outside. You get to your feet and stride to the door. The hound comes barreling in when you open it, her tongue lolling. She stops at the sight of Geralt, but her hackles stay down, so you turn your attention to Hadrian.

“Your hound,” he says to you, stepping through the door, “is a menace.”

He pauses, then, likely because Geralt’s blood has crept around to the front of your nightshirt on the ride, staining the fabric crimson. 

“Shit,” he says, taking you by the forearm, already pulling at your shirt to get to the wounds.

“Stop,” you tell him. You manage to catch your shirt just as he starts to slide it off your shoulders. 

“How much blood have you lost?” 

“Hadrian. It’s not my blood.”

His hands go still against you. He lets out a breath that sounds perilously close to a whimper. “Good,” he says. “Good.”

“Hadrian.” You nod towards Geralt. The Witcher has his eyes closed, his head back against the side of your bed. 

“Hell,” Hadrian says, his quick eyes already measuring the length of the cut and the shallow breaths of his patient. “Alright.”

Geralt’s eyes flicker open as Hadrian takes your place in front of him. The other man recoils, just slightly, at the sight of those amber eyes. From the way Geralt’s mouth pulls, it is a familiar reaction.

You pay little attention as Hadrian sets to work. Asha presses against you. She is dirtier than usual, dust collecting in her deep brown fur. You sigh and nudge her to come outside with you. You glance up at the doorway, and Geralt’s eyes are on you. Hadrian swipes a salve over the cut and the Witcher’s jaw tightens. His head tilts back once more. His neck is a thick column, and you consider what it would be like to set your teeth against it with his hands firm on your hips, holding you down on his lap.

Asha whines and you step through the door. You leave it cracked despite the chill of the night air. The fire warms your small house quickly enough. “Come here,” you tell Asha. You brush your hands through her coat, shaking as much of the dust loose as you can. 

It takes longer than you expect. Hadrian is a careful healer, you know, and the wound had been severe, but you find yourself biting your lip as the moon climbs higher in the night sky. You busy yourself by taking care of the horse, who shies away for only an instant before letting you care for her. When you see Asha circling, ready to curl up on the dirt, you return inside.

There’s a little more color in Geralt’s face now. He is still wan and has a sheen of sweat covering him where he is not swathed with bandages, but Hadrian’s brow has smoothed out of the pinch it had gathered into when he’d laid eyes on the Witcher.

Though you are almost silent as you enter, the Witcher’s eyes open, his head rising. His eyes flicker down for a moment, and you realize that in the chill night air, your nipples have tightened into peaks, just visible under the thin nightshirt. He meets your gaze steadily when his eyes return to yours.

Hadrian’s grey eyes dart to your chest too, but that is much more commonplace. You cross the small room to peer down at Geralt. Even seated, it feels like he towers over you, but you have lived too long at the edge of the forest, where the trees dwarf even some of the largest of creatures. “Live it is, then, I suppose?” you ask him. 

“So it appears,” he says, the slightest tilt at the corner of his lips. You wonder if the blood loss is why he seems to find you amusing.

“You’ll take him back to town then?” you ask Hadrian.

The healer shakes his head, picking at his long black braid with nervous fingers. “He can’t ride yet.”

Geralt makes a noise that expresses his clear disagreement with that assessment. 

Hadrian quails a bit in the face of Geralt’s thunderous brow, but he rarely backs down when it comes to recovery. “The wound will open again. You need to limit movement. In the very least for the night, if not longer.”

“I can ride.”

You heave a sigh. “I did not drag you out of the forest so you could manage to kill yourself in a quest to return to a small town.”

The tendons in Geralt’s jaw flex.

“Do you need to stay?” you ask Hadrian. It could be foolish, you know, to stay alone with this strange man, but the wisps would not steer you wrong. You think. You hope.

His eyes flicker between you and the Witcher. When Asha shifts in her place by the hearth - even curled up, she is a solid, barrel-chested beast and wounded as he is, you do not think Geralt could stand long against her - drawing his eyes, he huffs out a breath.

“No,” he says. “The bandages should hold. But I will come first thing in the morning.”

Geralt, you notice, has leaned his head back again. His eyes are closed, his white hair spilling over the coverlet like a fresh snowfall. Except not quite, since the forest hollows are not the cleanest, and there is grime streaked throughout his locks.

“Up,” you say with a sigh, bending down to levy him to his feet. Hadrian bends with you, thankfully, as you’ll likely need his strength as well. “Let’s at least get off the top layer of grime.”

Geralt comes to his feet with a grunt of pain, and then you have to press against him as he sways. Hadrian braces him from the other side. “‘I can ride,’” you scoff under your breath - from the look you get, Geralt hears you just fine - before handing off most of Geralt’s weight to Hadrian.

You strip off the rest of the Witcher’s armor methodically, undoing the ties nimbly as you find them, sliding the studded leather free. He watches you steadily as you work, his gaze unwavering as you touch him here and there. Much of the grime is contained to the leather, luckily, so you leave his trousers in place. 

Geralt takes the dampened rag from you when you offer it. As he wipes some of the sweat and dirt from his neck and face - Hadrian keeps him balanced with a healer’s detachment, only sharpening his gaze when a noise that could be pained issues from Geralt - you finish a few of your nightly chores.

The Witcher settles onto your bed. The frame creaks under his weight, but it’s big enough for him with some room left over. 

“If you’re leaving, you should go,” you say to Hadrian. “It’ll soon be too late to even travel the main road safely.”

He glances between you and Geralt, those nimble fingers plucking at his braid once more, but nods. You bid him farewell at the door.

Geralt watches as you take the rag he’d used and dip it back into one of the buckets. You wring it out a few times, until the water is clear again, and then sling it over your shoulder.

“I would ask if you’re always this quiet,” you say to him, “but I think I already know the answer.”

“I would ask if you always talk this freely,” he says, “but I hardly think you need a question to keep talking.”

“The price of my inn is that you must hear me chatter as I would if you were not here.”

He grunts. You bite down on your smile.  


You strip off your nightshirt - it’s gone stiff with blood now, crackling unpleasantly as you pull it over your head - without a care, though you’re turned just enough that he cannot see the entirety of you. You run the rag over yourself, wiping away the remnants of the forest and of his blood, the water soothing against your skin. Gooseflesh prickles at your skin as the air brushes across your damp skin, cooling you. 

The bed creaks. “Do not bleed on my bed,” you warn, glancing over your shoulder at him. Geralt has turned to better face you, propping himself up on his side. You can see the bandages straining across his muscular chest.

“You cannot expect me to not turn towards such a sight.”

You pull on your shift before padding over to the bed. It is your bed, and you will sleep in it, whether he is there or not. “You have a neck,” you remind him. “I hear they turn. Without the risk of opening a dire wound.”

He grunts. It’s clearly his most fluent language. He turns onto his back when you push lightly at his shoulder. The bed creaks under you as you put a knee up on it. You consider swinging your other leg over him, to straddle his thick thighs, but there’s little point in tormenting yourself. Instead, you peer down at the expanse of bandages. 

There’s no blood blossoming, so you assume the wound has not opened once more. Geralt is pallid in the dying firelight, the embers’ soft glow doing little to hide the effect of the blood loss. His eyelids keep fluttering open and closed, long, sooty lashes dark against his skin.

Still, he drags a finger over the crease of your hip as you climb over him to get to the remaining bedspace. Through the thicker material of your shift, his touch is almost ghostly. You sink into place between him and the wall. 

“Sleep, Geralt of Rivia,” you say. “And let us see what the morning brings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! i have only ever seen the Netflix adaptation, and I've only seen it once, but hopefully this isn't too off base. 
> 
> originally i meant for this to be a one shot but i am incapable of shutting the hell up, so it'll be a few parts. likely just two, but i put three because again - i can't shut up.
> 
> either way, i'm a big proponent of making the content you want to see and writing what makes you happy, so here, have some lovely self-indulgence!
> 
> my tumblr is barely up and running, but it's owillofthewisps.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes when first light creeps under the shutter.

It is his sudden stillness that stirs you into the waking world, though it takes you a moment to register the frame you’re pressing your knees against is not Asha, but that of a sturdily built man. Your mind moves like honey, dripping slow and sweet with sleep as you flex your toes against brawny thighs. Your companion shifts. You breathe out a drowsy inquiry, a murmuring noise laced with gentle promise and a flicker of heat.

It garners you a rough noise that is edged with its own heat, but there’s a silvery thread of pain woven through the sound. It is not a sound you know, and your eyes flutter open stickily. _Geralt_ , you realize as you uncurl yourself, that drowsy haze melting from you. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, just high enough that you can peer down at him. His eyelashes, long and sooty, flicker like shadows against his skin as he blinks away sleep. 

It is hushed in your home, the forest only beginning to stir outside your door, the soft calls of the birds muted by the shutters. The quiet is heavy between you, like the syrupy air of midsummer, so thick that you can taste it. Geralt’s eyes trace the neckline of your shift - you are sleep-hot still, your shift catching on your damp skin and pulling low - before he meets your gaze with the same steadiness of last night. 

“Haven’t lost the will to live yet, I see,” you say. 

“If I had,” Geralt says, his voice somehow even rougher with the dregs of sleep, “that sound might have brought me back.”

“Best you not die, then, if it’s only a might.”

He huffs out what could the barest hint of a laugh, but then he grimaces, one of his large hands coming up to press against the bandages swaddling his wound. 

You push yourself fully upright. How easily you forget, you think, how easily the true nature of pain slips through your fingers. “Let me see,” you tell him, soft and firm, wrapping your fingers around his thick wrist and tugging gently. 

Geralt grunts, but he lets you peel his hand away. He watches as you examine the bandages swathing him, your fingers playing delicately across the edges, darting away from his skin every time his muscles tense. You cannot tell if it is pain or simply a reaction to the light touches. Perhaps it is both. His bandages are grimy at the edges now, and there’s blood blooming in a thick stripe at the center of his chest, following the path of his wound. The bloodstain is rusty with age at the edges, but the center is still damp, the color dark like wine. 

The wound opened sometime in the night, likely, and while you have heard that Witchers heal faster, you think of the wet touch of his blood soaking through your shirt last night and wonder how much more blood he has to lose. 

“There is little I can do, I’m afraid,” you tell him. “My healing abilities start with cleaning and bandaging and do not go much further.” You rise to your knees. “Hadrian will not be long, though, and I do have some celandine, I think.”

“I’m fine.” 

“Mhmm.”

“I said I’m fine,” Geralt says, catching you by the hips as you swing over him - carefully, using your thighs to brace yourself well above him to avoid any pressure on his wound - to get out of bed. His hands are firm against you, large enough that his fingers splay over much of the plush of your hips, and even weakened by his wound, you can feel the strength coiled in him.

You consider him for a moment. His furrowed brow is damp with sweat, his eyes slightly hazy, and there’s a tilt to his mouth that speaks of pain, but the set of his jaw tells you that you will have better luck pushing a boulder uphill than moving him. “I still need to rise,” you tell him. “You in my bed or not, there are things to be done as the day begins.”

Geralt releases you slowly, his fingers falling away from your hips, brushing over where the fabric of your shift has rucked up from his grip. The heat of his hands leaves ghostly imprints on your hips, the warmth prickling against your flesh until it fades. 

Asha uncurls from her spot by the hearth as your feet touch the ground. She waits, head cocked, and then blows out a sigh when you don’t go to the door, every inch of her slumping. “Don’t complain,” you tell her, kneeling by the hearth and beginning to stir the fire back to life. She whuffs, settling her head against your hip, all silken, warm fur, and you run a hand over the familiar curve of her skull.

Geralt has a gaze like irons, you think, something that winds around you and hangs heavy. You can feel his eyes on your back as you work at the fire, coaxing it until the first lick of flame skates up the side of the new log, the orange glow of it gnawing at the wood. He is still quiet.

You, though - you are used to the quiet of the forest, where words are just beneath the silence, in the still judgement of the trees and the fluttery din of the birds in the same breath, in the sound of your feet sinking into soft loam and the hush of dusk under the crowns of the oaks, their branches stretching to blur out the sky. You hear Geralt’s silence and tuck it into yourself to try and translate later. Part of you wonders which came first - his quiet, or human scorn.

The fire is crackling merrily now, a symphony of warmth, and you pour a little bit of water in your hands to wash the soot away. Asha huffs when you flick the excess water at her, her tail thumping against the hearthstones as you laugh. Another quick flick sends water pattering down on her coat, and Asha snaps at you playfully, the click of her massive teeth ringing out through the house as she snags your sleeve.

“Alright,” you tell her. “I’ll stop.”

She lets go and nudges against your hand. You hum a quick tune, smoothing your hand over her proud brow. 

The bed creaks. “You’re going to open your wound again,” you tell Geralt, keeping your eyes on the fire as it pops and sputters. You drop a thin birch log into the heart of the flames and watch as it is consumed. “I’m running out of shirts for you to bleed on.”

He grunts.

You come to your feet with a sigh, turning to face the bed. Geralt has pushed himself into a seated position, sweat gleaming on him, his muscles rippling beneath his scarred skin. His chest is heaving, the bandages straining tight.

“You aren’t going to heal like this,” you point out, stooping to collect one of the wooden cups from last night.

“Witchers heal differently.”

“Differently, yes,” you say softly. “But you still need to heal.”

“I’m fine.”

“If just saying things made them true, the world would be a much different place.”

Geralt grunts. The rumble of it makes your fingers tighten on the cup. It’s not far from the type of sound you usually pull out of men with your teeth and tongue, stolen from deep inside, all smoke and heat. 

“Drink,” you say, holding out the cup of ale. 

Geralt’s fingertips skim across your knuckles as he takes the cup from you. It is a fleeting touch, soft and warm like spring rain. You wonder if it is the type of touch he uses to coax a lover back into bed.

“Drink,” you say again, because though he has taken the cup, he is merely watching you over the rim of it, his amber eyes aglow in the fire’s light. “I’m told it helps with the pain.”

Geralt’s brow furrows for an instant, but then he is drinking. The muscles in his throat flex and play as he swallows thickly. You swallow, too. 

Asha whines and nudges your hip with her head. It almost tips you.

“Impatient,” you tell her, steadying yourself with a hand on her scruff. She huffs, nudging at you again. “This is not how we get what we want.”

Asha grumbles, and this time, it isn’t a nudge. You crack with laughter as she headbutts your hip hard enough to send you stumbling back two paces, the sound spilling from you like water. “Alright,” you gasp, little laughs still tumbling through your lips. You cup her head with both hands, trailing your thumbs over her velvet ears. “Alright.”

When you glance up, there is something soft tucked in the corner of Geralt’s lips. It fades under your attention. Asha whines again, and you sigh. “C’mon, then,” you tell her, heading for the door. You reach for your cloak before you remember that it is crumpled near the bed, stiff with Geralt’s blood. The curse slips past your lips, but it will only be for a moment, so you step out the door in just your shift. The chill of the morning bites at you almost instantly, the hard-packed dirt frigid beneath your toes, your breath misting in the air.

This early, the forest is still dark, the shadowed groves like empty maws. The rising sun is shedding more light every moment, but the canopy of the forest will keep the heart of it hidden for hours yet. You gaze into the woods, into the shadows of the trees, the whisper of their rustling leaves weaving through you like a half-remembered melody, and take a step forward.

Asha goes hurtling past like a crack of thunder, jarring you out of the fog that has settled over you, her powerful haunches bunching as she runs, crashing through the underbrush. She disappears into the treeline like a wraith. You wait for a moment, but she does not reappear.

When you step back inside, the fire’s warmth greets you like a lover, coils around you and presses against your skin. You pause just beyond the doorway. 

Bathed by the firelight, softened at the edges by the golden glow, Geralt is something hazy, like a dream stealing into the waking world. As he shifts, his muscles flex under his skin, his bicep bulging as he raises the cup to his lips, which shine wet with ale, and you consider returning to bed.

The bandages catch your eye, though, the white of them almost lost amidst the cream of your sheets, and you instead move to the kitchen, running your fingers over the clusters of dried herbs to ground yourself. 

“Come,” you say, “you should eat.”

The sheets rustle. 

“If you dare try to rise,” you say, tearing off a chunk of bread from yesterday’s loaf, the crust crunching beneath your fingers and laying it on a plate, along with a fat piece of cured sausage, “I will pin you down in that bed.”

“And how terrible that would be.”

You glance over your shoulder. There is heat to Geralt’s gaze, and it pricks at you, makes your fingers tighten around the plate’s edge. “Eat,” you tell him, crossing to the bed, handing him the plate. “Hadrian will have words for me if I do not feed you.”

Geralt grunts, but he takes the plate readily enough. You refill his cup and return the flagon to the kitchen. 

You eat as he does, letting the salt of the sausage linger on your tongue before washing it away with the ale. As is your habit, you move while you eat, gathering up your blood stained shirt and cloak from the floor. You hum to yourself as you do. If Geralt minds the noise, he says nothing.

As more light creeps in around the shutters, overtaking the glow of the fire, you realize that you have not yet made an offering this week. 

You pull a few small jars from the shelves and settle at the table. Geralt seems content with the silence, but you have always filled your home with chatter.

“What is your horse’s name?” you ask. Part of you is simply curious to see if he will answer. Clearly, he speaks, but you suspect he has little tolerance for meaningless pleasantries, words just to fill the silence.

The silence stretches, and just as you think he will not answer, he says: “Roach.”

“She’s sweet.”

“When she wants to be.”

You laugh softly, prying one of the jars open and peering inside.

The honeycomb is dense with sticky, sweet honey, the faintest smell of clover wafting to you. You scoop out a large piece. The wax breaks easily beneath your fingers, and you drop it into one of the small bowls you use for offerings. The honey trickles down your fingers like sunlight, the color of it reminding you of the golden waves of wheat in fall. You lick at it without thought, taste the salt of your palm just under the mask of the honey’s lush nectar, pull a fingertip into your mouth and suck it clean, and Geralt curses under his breath.

You look to him and there is something consuming to him now, all covetous hunger. Your breath hitches. There is still honey thick on your lips, and you wet them without thinking, the tip of your tongue sliding over the full flesh, catching in the honey, pulling the sweetness into you once more. 

A muscle in Geralt’s cheek flutters.

His eyes, darkened to the color of resin in the fading sun, rise from your lips to catch your eyes. You think of those amber eyes peering up at you from between your thighs, and the heat flares low in you, starts to kindle into something fierce. Geralt keeps his gaze steady, snares you with the fever of it. You have known deep, quick attraction before, heavy and fierce, but the Witcher’s intensity robs you of your breath.

Even the fluting birdsong filtering in from the forest cannot pierce the quiet that has settled over you and Geralt. The world feels muted around you, as if your head is filled with cotton, only the thrumming hum of your heartbeat loud in your ears.

Geralt, though - Geralt is clear to you, sharp-edged with want, his massive hands flexing against the sheets. And you want, too, you want those hands on you, pushing between your legs to cup your cunt, and weaving through your hair to fist tightly at the nape of your neck. If he were not injured, you think, you would already know the taste of his skin. 

Some distant, blurry part of you thinks of the wisps. You wonder what the forest knows. 

There is a knock at the door. It blows the cobwebs of desire entangling you away, pulls you free from Geralt’s burning attention, though the searing spark of it still idles in your belly, as if you have swallowed an incandescent star.

You rise to greet Hadrian as he steps inside. “You’re late,” you say. Geralt makes a quiet, sour noise at the sight of the healer. Neither you nor Hadrian deign to acknowledge it.

“You should not be sitting upright,” Hadrian says to the Witcher. Geralt’s brow furrows, a tempest waiting to unleash, and Hadrian fiddles with the end of his braid. You watch as he winds the ebony strands tight around his lithe fingers. In this fight, though, you would lay your coin against the Witcher. 

“And yet I am,” Geralt says. 

Hadrian shifts, all lean muscle, and you know that stance. Pain is a stranger to you, something seldom felt, more myth than reality, and Hadrian struggles against the tide of your nonchalance every time he thinks you require healing. It makes that posture familiar, and you know he is digging in his heels to weather Geralt’s storm. The healer is no fighter, but he shores up his defenses like none other you’ve met, lets his patients’ sieges break upon his gates. From the set of his jaw, Geralt recognizes there is a different sort of fight at hand.

You’ve little desire for a headache this soon after daybreak. There is also little you can do to assist Hadrian; he is skilled well beyond your measure. You fetch your boots and slip on the supple leather. 

“Where are you going?” Hadrian asks. 

“Out.”

“And if I need your assistance?”

“Then call for me,” you say, picking up the bowl of honeycomb. There’s honey glinting sticky on the edge. You swipe your finger through it, start to bring it to your mouth, and pause. You cannot bear to look at the bed. Geralt’s eyes are a dragging anchor on you, fierce and relentless and tethering. He could draw you to him in an instant, you know. You lean over to rub the honey off of your skin on a nearby cleaning rag. “I am not going far.”

Hadrian mumbles something you can’t quite catch. When you glance back, he’s focused on Geralt, his hands gentle as he tugs at the bandages despite Geralt’s glower, his keen grey eyes evaluating. Geralt groans through gritted teeth as the healer begins to unwind the soiled bandages. They pull at the edges of the wound; it starts to leak blood sluggishly. 

Geralt seems made of stone. He is all hard lines as the healer begins to work, impenetrable despite the gleam of sweat on his brow. 

The stitches are neat and numerous; Hadrian’s careful work reminds you of delicate embroidery. It’s a long gash, digging through much of Geralt’s torso, and you wonder what creature left such a mark. You think such a wound might have killed any but a Witcher. 

Hadrian bends over the wound and obscures your sight. Geralt’s eyes find you over the curve of Hadrian’s back, and you swallow. Your fingers tighten on the bowl, but you flash him a small, soft smile, your lips tilting like the gentle curve of a conch shell. It feels like an offering at his altar. 

Geralt blinks, and though his expression does not change, something eases in him. Perhaps a smile is the rarest of things to him, a most unusual gift. You think it likely.

You turn from him, from his sunrise eyes, and swath yourself with one of the lightest furs you own. It’s unwieldy, you suppose, but it will do to replace your cloak for now.

The morning air has warmed. It still has a bite, though, a chilly kiss against your skin. You pull the furs tighter around your frame.

The godling’s stump is not far; abundant with moss and small leaves, it is just beyond the edge of the far side of the clearing you live in. The stump is a grand thing, with an entangled root system that lifts above the dirt, dotted with creamy mushrooms and young ferns still unfurling. The godling is a rare sight, elusive even when you were a child, though they would sometimes crawl from their stump to run through the underbrush with you. Now, it is often only their eyes that you see, peering wide and round from the shadows of the roots.

You hum to yourself as you approach the stump. It’s an old song, one that your father taught you, one that resonates with the forest, makes the leaves rustle. You kneel before the stump and push the small bowl close to a section where the roots part, just slightly, just enough for a small body to scurry through. 

“Thank you,” you tell the godling, the words soft, “for watching over us.”

There is no reply. 

You slide a rock under the bowl, raising it just enough to delay the ants, you hope. You push to your feet and brush the dirt from your shift. Small bits of moss cling to the fabric, and they are damp between your fingertips as you pinch them away. 

It is a meandering walk back to your home. You are in no rush, are kept warm with your body heat trapped beneath the furs, and the forest is waking still, small mice darting to and fro at the woods’ edge. You can hear the forest humming. 

You pause by your small cellar. It’s little more than a hole in the ground, but it suits your needs. You slide the wooden cover back into place once you have a small handful of carrots, and make your way to the lean-to that is housing Roach.

Her ears perk as you approach. She accepts the first carrot eagerly, nosing up against you for more, and you stroke a hand over her neck. 

She’s just pulled the last carrot from your palm when something catches her attention. You peer down the small path that cuts through the thinnest part of the crescent of trees around the clearing. 

The lanky form of the alderman is easy to recognize, though the sight of him makes your lip curl. He is not alone. The alderman’s companion is unfamiliar, both in silhouette and in the fact that he is carrying what appears to be a lute.

There is only one place they can be heading, for the path ends at your home. 

You cross your arms over your chest, hugging the furs tighter around your form, and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be honest with you, i'm not sure why i ever thought i could get this done in one part. hopefully the next part won't take as long, but i have a feeling i will be just as distracted with one-shots as i have been for the last month or so.
> 
> you would not believe the music i listened to while writing this. or maybe you would. 
> 
> anyway, i'm still enjoying myself and i hope you are too!


	3. Chapter 3

Each year the path to your home narrows.

The forest consumes, you know, sends out little tendrils of roots to spiderweb through the soil until seedlings push up through the thick loam. It’s a slow, steady hunger, and it’s the oldest song you’ve ever known.

This season, it’s the ferns. They’ve crowded in close to the scuffed dirt of the path’s edge. Little clusters of verdant green, like moss spreading on a stone, each of them unfurling like a hawk’s wing to hang heavy, until the path is almost buried beneath a sea of fronds. 

It gives you no pleasure to cut them back. You try to do it as kindly as you can, with a freshly honed dagger that makes clean cuts. If you let it, the forest will close in until it is on your doorstep, that it will grow around you until you cannot leave. One day, you know, the forest will take you back. 

It has been a few weeks since you last trimmed back the ferns. Lucjan has a sour twist to his lips as he pushes through them, the large fronds catching at his hips. There’s sweat gleaming on his brow. He’d been moving quickly through the ferns’ grasp until he’d laid eyes on your form lingering by the lean-to. His pace slows. Even from afar, you can see the confused tilt of his companion’s head, the way the stranger’s eyes dart between the two of you. 

You are tired of waiting.

It’s foolish, this little game of Lucjan’s. You want no part of it. 

Roach noses at you, presses greedy into your fingers in her search for the carrots she’s already consumed. You pet her once more, slide your palm over slopes and valleys of her muscled back, and go inside. 

The balmy warmth of your home folds around you like a cloak as you enter, coils soft and familiar against you. The chill that’s been clinging to your skin melts away. Hadrian’s been using salves; the acrid kiss of medicinal herbs lingers in the air. It’s an echo of the forest, of wet moss adorning old stumps, something sharply vegetal with a hint of cloying sweetness. It makes your nose wrinkle. 

Hadrian pays you little mind. He’s still tending to Geralt, his long fingers delicate against the scabbed edges of the wound. Geralt’s muscles ripple beneath his scarred skin, bunching and tensing even against the healer’s gentle examination. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth at the sight. 

When you glance up from the hypnotizing coil of Geralt’s muscles, he is already looking at you, his eyes molten. They are the color of sunlit honey, and you can still taste sweetness at the corners of your lips. That spark of heat flares up, just a hint, and Geralt inhales deeply. The bed creaks as he shifts, and you can’t help the quirk of your lips. 

As you had expected, Hadrian won whatever skirmish took place after you left: Geralt is back to lying flat on your bed, his head pillowed by one large arm.

“Oh, you can see reason,” you say. “I’ll have to remember that.”

Geralt grunts. It could be meant for you, but Hadrian has just gently pressed the edge of a bandage into the salve gleaming at the edge of the gash splitting Geralt’s torso, so it could perhaps be that as well. 

You know that furrow of Hadrian’s brow. You bite down on any further teasing as he starts to spool the bandage around the thick muscles of Geralt’s chest. There’s an artful precision to Hadrian’s fingers; he moves like a weaver, each inch of bandage tucked carefully into place. 

You step out of your boots and shed your furs, let them puddle on the ground. Your breeches are near the hearth; you pull off your shift as you cross to them. It flutters to the floor, stirring in your wake. Geralt’s attention is forge-hot, something molten that scalds across your skin from even paces away. It catches like kindling deep in your belly, but you pull in a soft breath, snuff the embers before the fire can truly light.

Hadrian makes that noise that you know so well. “Shameless,” he tells you.

You peek over your bare shoulder as you slip on your breeches. “So you say.” 

“Must you?”

“Get dressed in my own home?” you ask. “Yes, I think I must.” The bodice you pick up is soft with age, the edges of the embroidered forget-me-nots lightened by exposure to the sun, and you slip on a loose shirt before starting to lace your bodice over it. 

Hadrian huffs, but the edges of it are rounded with affection. “Come here and help, gnat.”

Geralt’s gaze still rests on you, and it reminds you of hearthglow, of the warmth that radiates from the bricks long after the fire goes out, a soft kiss of heat against the tender flesh of your palms that keeps you cozy through the night. You think that you would know his eyes anywhere. As if some part of him has carved into the bark of your skin to leave a mark behind. Too quick, you think, and wonder again what the forest knows. 

You turn back towards the bed, your fingers busy with the finishing knot on your laces, and Hadrian is holding the edges of the bandages, his sure grip keeping the cloth taut. He arches a brow. You pick up your dagger on the way to the bed. Geralt tenses, just slightly, the muscles of his stomach tightening, but his expression is stone. 

“I’ll try not to kill you,” you tell him, resting a knee on the edge of the mattress and leaning over him. Hadrian frames a portion of the pristine bandage between his fingers, and you hook the cotton between your thumb and the edge of your dagger.

“Reassuring,” Geralt rumbles, the word drier than desert sand. 

“I do try.” 

You flick your dagger, and the keen blade splits the cotton cleanly. Hadrian hums his thanks and hands you the excess bandage. You tuck your dagger into your belt and start to wind the cotton up again. 

Hadrian’s just tucked the end of the bandage into place when your door opens. You grit your teeth and get to your feet. From the corner of your eye, you see Geralt start to push himself upright despite Hadrian’s hiss of annoyance.

“Lucjan,” you say, and there is an edge of the wild in your tone, a peek at your teeth.

The alderman ignores you, his pale grey eyes flitting to the Witcher that lies in your bed. The bard, though - the bard lights up at the sight of you, the smile that flickers across his lips dripping with charm. 

“Well met,” the bard says, and there is something lyrical to his voice. A talented bard, then, you muse. “A woodwife indeed, and if I may say, what the forest has gained is a loss to men everywhere.”

You raise a brow. “Well,” you drawl, “I’ve always been picky about wood.”

Woodwife, you muse, for it has been many, many moons since you’ve heard the name. A name as old as the gnarled trees that stand close to the heart of the forest. In some ways, it feels a family name, a name that has fallen from your ancestors’ mouths to catch in yours like a blessing. 

The bard laughs. “Jaskier at your service, and in case he hasn’t bothered with basic manners, the Witcher is Geralt.”

Geralt makes a noise that reminds you of the far-off rumble of thunder, a promise of something rushing towards you on the horizon. Jaskier seems unbothered by it.

“I require no service,” you say, amused, but you give Jaskier your name anyway.

“Have you done your job, Witcher?” Lucjan asks. The alderman has a voice he doesn’t deserve, creamy and rich, and even edged with a snarl, it rolls through your home like warmed sugar. 

Hadrian rises, now, and his jaw is set. You shake your head minutely, and he subsides before the first word of reprimand leaves his lips.

“Yes,” Geralt says. “I’ll take my coin.”

“Where is your proof?”

“There was no mention of proof needed.”

“It seems something that an experienced Witcher would not need spelled out for him,” Lucjan sneers. 

You wonder if he would be so cutting if Geralt were on his feet, not braced against the bedpost with his skin gleaming with sweat. Likely not. The alderman is sure of his power in the village, where he wears no crown but walks like a king, but he would not stand for a second against a Witcher. Next to Lucjan, Jaskier flinches, just the smallest bit, and there is sorrow lining his mouth. 

Geralt’s handsome features twist with something wild for the briefest instant, a statue snarling to life, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s as fleeting as a spooked hare. 

“The creature is dead,” you say. “Not a pretty corpse, either.”

All heads turn to you. You move to the kitchen table, reaching up for a cluster of dried marigolds that hangs from your ceiling. The brittle stem breaks beneath your fingers. A breath passes, and you turn back to the men. “I’m sorry,” you say, “but I could have sworn I just spoke. Give him his coin, Lucjan.”

“Am I supposed to just take your word for it?”

The floret crumbles in your palm as you close your fist around it, the petals crunching crisply. You dump the crushed marigold into a nearby square of cheese cloth and dust off your hand. You wind the cheesecloth shut and tie it closed, the soft scent of it still cloying despite the desiccation of the pale gold bloom. 

“I can take you there, if you’d like,” you offer. “It’s not too far, just beyond the murky waters of the deep pool - you know the one, I think? The wolves will have been at it, but they will leave some flesh on the bones for at least a day or so more.”

Lucjan pales, goes milk-white beneath his thick russet beard, and the quirk of your lips is not kind. 

“Well? It'd be a few hours, since the undergrowth is thicker that deep into the woods,” you say.

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” you press. “I’d hate for you to have to simply take me at my word.” 

He’s still pale, reminds you of the waning moon, a brief glimpse of bone white in the dark of the night sky, but Lucjan’s brows knit together into a scowl, his lips swollen with the curse he keeps tucked behind his teeth. “Your coin, Witcher,” he grits, and he tosses the thick purse onto the foot of the bed. “More than enough to carry you into the next town and out of mine.”

Behind Lucjan, Asha slinks in through the still open door, a hare hanging limply from her mouth. She trots to you, all rippling muscle.

“Gods,” Jaskier says, his hand flying to his chest as she pushes past him. You bite back your smile. 

“Thank you, darling,” you say to Asha softly, as she comes to a halt before you, her tail wagging. She drops the hare into your hands, and you stroke her muzzle, still spotted with blood. It’ll be a good dinner, roasted up with the remains of the root vegetables already harvested, with a few sprigs of sage from your overgrown bush. You store the hare’s carcass on the small shelf nearby; you’ll break it down later. 

Asha sits at your side, pressing her broad frame against you, but her ears tell you that she’s alert. Her eyes are fixed on Lucjan. There’s the slightest rumble of a growl vibrating against your hip. 

Lucjan is gripping his right forearm, his knuckles white. It’s rucked up his sleeve, just a hint, and the edges of a deep scar peeks out from beneath the cloth, a crater in his flesh. 

“Do you have other business here, Lucjan?” you ask, stroking the crown of Asha’s head. “I’d hate to keep you from the village.”

The alderman’s lips curl. He leaves without a word, tossing a glare back at you. A hush falls, broken only by Asha’s panting.

“I don’t think he likes you very much,” Jaskier tells you. 

It startles a laugh out of you. “It’s of little importance,” you say.

Hadrian makes a noise that indicates he doesn’t quite agree. “I’ll talk to him,” he says. “Make sure you aren’t kicked out of the inn, Jaskier.”

“We’re not staying,” Geralt grits. “The job is done.”

“You’re not moving for at least another night,” Hadrian says. “You’re healing already, but that won’t matter if you open the cut over and over.”

You tune out the rest of the argument, kneeling to rub the carmine blood from Asha’s soft muzzle. She grumbles but allows it, and you press a kiss against her brow. Once you’re back on your feet, you wipe your hands clean on a damp rag and glance over to the bed. 

Geralt is glowering, his golden eyes aflame. Hadrian’s prevailed, then, and from the look on Jaskier’s face, it’s a rare occurrence. The bard’s grin is puckish, all feral delight. 

With his healer’s battle over, Hadrian quails a bit, his barricade battered by Geralt’s fury. Asha follows the two of you to the door, though she pauses to nudge curiously at Jaskier. His grin wilts slightly, but she moves on quickly. 

“Keep him abed,” Hadrian tells you once you’re both out into the morning’s warming air. He raises a slim hand to forestall your rude comment before it can even form on your tongue. “It’s a grievous wound. He is healing, but even a Witcher needs time for something of this nature.”

You nod.

Hadrian presses two small tins into your hands. “The honey salve if the edges crack open and start to bleed again,” he says. “The other is for pain, though I doubt he’ll show it. I’ll return at midday tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

Hadrian pauses. “You’re alright with having him here?”

You glance back into your home. Jaskier has pulled up a small stool next to the bed, and is chattering away, his long fingers swooping through the air. Geralt is still a thundercloud, his brow heavy with a raging storm. 

“It’s fine,” you say. He is no monster, you think, but that will not soothe Hadrian, for you have long measured differently than the village has. “The wisps have never led me astray.”

“Not yet,” Hadrian says, his voice soft.

“Not yet,” you agree.

“Tomorrow, then.”

You nod, and Hadrian starts down the path.

“You know,” Jaskier says as you step back inside, “you really must tell me how you and Geralt met. He never gives any details.” The bard is already plucking at his lute, the finely carved instrument cradled on his lap. 

Geralt looks caught between irritation and resignation. “Shut up, Jaskier.”

You laugh quietly as the bard makes a noise of great offense. “I hate to disappoint,” you say, “but there’s not much to tell.” Geralt’s expression doesn’t shift, but there’s a hint of softness around his mouth, perhaps the smallest touch of gratitude. 

“Even a little is better than nothing!”

“Leave it, Jaskier,” Geralt growls.

“Grumpy as ever, I see, even ensconced in a cozy home with a lovely woodwife.”

You make your way back to the hearth. The fire has died down, and you stir it back to life, rattle the embers until flames start to lick up from them once more, leaping golden to gnaw at the log you lay into the mouth of it. You swing the cauldron, heavy with water and burned black at the bottom with years of use, into the flames to boil.

“You didn’t need to lie for me,” Geralt says.

You blink. “Hmm?”

“The corpse was too far for you to see when you found me.”

“The tree hollow did limit my vision,” you agree, and Jaskier’s fingers twitch. “But it is dead, is it not?”

“Yes,” Geralt says. 

“Then it hardly matters.”

“What if he had asked to see it?” Jaskier asks. You can practically see his mind whirring, the way he’s likely weaving the tale together, spinning it into pretty lyrics to make a tapestry of a song, his thread the pluck of his lute.

You feed the fire another log; it crackles its gratitude, hissing and spitting. “No one from the village would go that deep in the forest. Not even with me at their side, not for something as paltry as that.”

“Clever,” the bard says. 

He starts to chatter at Geralt again, badgering the Witcher for details of his hunt, of how he was wounded. You nudge the cauldron off the fire and ladle some of the boiling water into a tankard. The cheesecloth with the marigold goes into it, and the floral scent starts to bloom immediately, rising with the steam. 

“What were you hunting?” you ask, because it’s been tugging at you ever since you laid eyes on Geralt in the woods. You glance over to the two men, curious, and Jaskier goes quiet. He’s got that sorrowful tilt to his mouth again. 

“The werewolf,” Geralt says. There’s something sharp to him now, though, the steel of him thrumming like an axe cutting through a thick, tough trunk of a young tree. 

“Oh,” you say, and your fingers tremble. 

You think of the night air torn open by howling over the last fortnight, how the cries had spiraled higher, been deeper, had been edged with hoarse hunger. When the moon waxed full just days ago, rising swollen with light into the sky, the forest had gone taut with something beyond your grasp. The wisps had danced closer, had come out from the treeline they usually lingered in, had flared bright, bright, bright when you stepped outside your door. You had heeded their warning and called Asha in before the sun had set. And even Asha, long at ease with the dark of the woods, who has run with the wolves some nights, you think, had stood uneasy at the door of your cottage, bristling so much that not even your soothing hand could calm her. 

“Did the village not tell you?” Jaskier asks, and where Geralt is sharp, the bard is all feathered down, something soft that cradles you. His sad eyes remind you of faded robin’s eggs, a muted blue in the sunlight streaming through your shutters. 

“No,” you say. You smile, but it’s weak at the edges, and Geralt’s knuckles go white as his fists clench. 

“You did not know there was a werewolf,” Geralt says.

“No.”

“Three dead and not a single soul in the village told you.” It’s not a question, not in Geralt’s mouth - it is a condemnation. There is little emotion to it, no real inflection. But you think that with the Witcher, it is not that simple.

“They think the forest protects me,” you offer. It’s the truth. The village has long assumed the forest shelters you, that the old trees weave into a wall between you and a threat. Hadrian would have told you, but he has been traveling, and you think that his kind heart has led him to the same reasoning as Geralt and Jaskier had - that the village would have told you of such a terrifying threat. 

Geralt’s gaze is heavy on you, his eyes flaring like torches, and you think there’s a snarl caught between his lips. You do not flinch from him. You drink in the hint of the untamed edge of him for the seconds it is bared, and then it is tucked away again, though his jaw is tight.

“The werewolf is dead,” you say. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, my lovely woodwife,” Jaskier says, and his voice is soft moss, cushioning the stone edges of his companion, “you know that is not true.”

You glance down at your tea, dipping your fingers into the still steaming water and pulling out the cheesecloth sack. You sip at it; it is earthy and strong, just a hint of bitterness and spice. “I’ll leave the two of you to catch up,” you say. You set your tea on the table.

“It’s your house,” Jaskier points out. “You don’t have to leave.”

“It’s mushroom season, and the harvest is good.”

Geralt grunts.

“You’re very trusting,” Jaskier says, arching a brow.

You snort. “Seems to me an needlessly elaborate set-up if your intention is to rob me.”

Jaskier sputters a bit, and Geralt huffs what could be a hint of a laugh. You give him a small, kind smile, and again, something in him softens, just at the edges. It makes you ache, the way such a tiny gesture seems to be a gift to him. 

Asha comes to her feet as you stoop to pick up your discarded furs. She trots to the door and waits patiently, her head cocked. You wind your pouch around your waist.

“You should rest,” you tell Geralt. The Witcher doesn’t bother to answer, and you turn to Jaskier. “And you should make sure that he does.”

“Ah,” the bard says. “I think you overestimate my control of this situation.”

“Probably.”

You’re out the door before he can quip something back. Asha bounds after you, nipping at your heels as you cross into the treeline. 

The forest’s muted song rises in the breeze, the soft whisper of the leaves barely covering the deeper sounds, the groaning croon of the half-dead giants, the towering trees split down the middle by a bolt of lightning, with pale new greenery starting to sprout from their charred remains. 

You chase a trail of hen of the woods, the thick masses of frilled mushroom blooming at the base of several colossal oaks. Each has a spread of branches that blocks out the sky, creating a canopy that keeps the forest cool despite the sun’s kiss. Asha roots out another hare and crashes through the underbrush after the quick creature. She returns a few minutes later, no hare in sight, and circles you a few times, nudging at you as you kneel to cut off another hen of the woods at the stem.

“Outsmarted, hmm?” you ask.

She huffs. You laugh quietly.

The two of you continue into the woods, venturing deeper beneath the arching branches. The underbrush thickens, but you pick your way through the dense patches with ease, hopping over tree roots and brushing your fingers against the rough bark. Your basket fills, and you decide to turn back.

You meander back through the woods, listening to the birdsong as it flutes high above you, accompanied by the fluttering beat of thin, powerful wings. The sunlight dapples through the leaves as they shift in the breeze, creating a mosaic of moving light, pieced together on the forest floor. You can feel the call of the forest, feel the way the roots want to wrap around your bones and tether you to the soil. 

Asha stays in the forest when you emerge from the treeline. She nudges at your hand before she disappears like a wraith into the underbrush, moving slowly this time, slinking as she hunts. 

Jaskier greets you enthusiastically as you step inside. Geralt does not, but he does acknowledge you. You start to clean the mushrooms as Jaskier relays the details he’s managed to pry from Geralt. There are not many.

You promise Jaskier dinner in exchange for a song. His expression tells you he would have given you a song anyway, but you have always met gift with gift. He cleans the rabbit with you, still regaling you with tales, and if he sees the little smiles you send to Geralt when the Witcher makes noises of exasperation at some of the details, the bard says nothing. You tease at both of them, find little spaces to fill with quips, and by the end of supper, you and Jaskier have managed to pull Geralt into a little conversation. 

It might be cheating, you think, for both of you to make up facts about creatures until Geralt chimes in solely to correct you, but playing fair is often boring. Besides, when he’s correcting you, the furrow of Geralt’s brow eases.

You send Jaskier off before night truly begins to fall - “you should probably make sure you do actually still have a room at the inn,” you remind him - because the exhaustion is starting to set in. It’s been a long while since you have talked so much. 

The ferns rustle behind him as he makes his way down the path. You wait until he’s just a shadow, the vaguest outline in the distance, perhaps only discernible because of the odd line the lute creates. 

The forest gleams in dusk, the fading light catching on the leaves and turning them into something other, twisting the shape of them until the world seems unreal. You stand at your threshold, gaze out into the dark eyes of the forest, the empty hollows between the trees. Sometimes you think the forest is looking back.

Asha comes when you call her, breaking through the treeline and arrowing across the clearing to you. She is streaked with dirt and dust, her brindled coat gone brown, and she reluctantly holds still for you to clap the worst of it from her. You give her a slice of sausage for her troubles. 

The wisps come to life, little moons peeking between the trees. Their light is like cotton, creamy white and soft, the type of light that you ache to touch. When you were a child, the village children used to coo over fireflies, over the pinpricks of light that flared and faded. It took you many years to understand that they meant something entirely different.

The wisps bob and dance between the trees as darkness falls. Always beckoning. Lanterns to guide, a ghostly light that will play gentle over your face until you draw too close.

Tonight, you close the door on them. The windows follow, the shutters clanking into place with a hollow thud. Geralt watches you quietly.

You peel off your clothing and let it fall into a pile on the floor. 

Geralt makes a low, hungry noise. The gravel of it stokes the banked embers of your desire, and you wonder what noises you could coax from him with your lips tight around his cock. It’s easy to imagine the girth of him laying heavy against the flat of your tongue.

You glance over your shoulder at him as you reach for your shift. You know the firelight makes your skin glisten, the low light of it forgiving. 

His eyes are covetous, gleaming golden, like coin in the sunlight. It makes your cunt clench. Geralt inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring. The bed creaks as he props himself up. You think again of his wound and you slip on your shift, let the fabric billow down your form like a lapping wave. 

“Lie down,” you tell him as you cross to the hearth to bank the fire for the night. “I’m beginning to think I should have ‘you won’t heal like this’ engraved into a stone for you.”

“For someone who wants me to heal, you seem to continuously tempt me to movement.”

“Am I to stay dressed, then, even in bed?”

His lips tilt into a soft smirk. You want to kiss it off his lips, tease it away with your tongue. From the way his eyes darken, that want shows on your face. 

“I think you already know my preference on that.”

“Again,” you say, hanging the poker in its place before coming to the edge of the bed, “I feel obligated to mention healing.” 

“And you have mentioned it.”

“Lie down,” you say again, placing a hand at his shoulder and pushing him back gently. The flex of his muscle beneath your fingers is a temptation all its own. 

Geralt lays back easily, sinks into the mattress again underneath your fingertips, and you consider tracing them down the swell of his bicep. He gazes up at you and gods, he’s beautiful, his eyes like the summer sun and his hair like snow, warring seasons that come together so prettily on him. 

Your hand still rests on his shoulder. He wraps his calloused fingers around your wrist, strokes his thumb over the delicate skin at your pulsepoint. The spark of it climbs over you like vines, twining and unfurling along the column of your spine, your bones a trellis for the faintest hint of pleasure. 

He lets you pull free from his grasp, though you try to soften it by trailing your fingers gently over the jut of his collarbone. You don’t want to reject him fully; you think he has suffered more than enough rejection. You can bide your time, and from the way Geralt’s lips part at your gentle touch, you think that he can as well.

He catches you by the hips as you start to swing over him to get to the empty space on the far side of the bed. One of his fingers presses against the hard patch of skin on your left hip, but the material of your shift cushions it. The feel of his hands bracketing your hips is starting to feel familiar, and the way he can halt your movement without effort goes straight to your cunt. 

You steady yourself with a hand on his chest, careful to avoid the bandages and his scars alike. In the flickering firelight, his handsome features are soft and sharp at the same time, shadowed and lit. A weapon and a shield, all at once. It takes a moment to realize that you have tilted forward, leaning towards the allure of his lips, and you pause. Geralt meets your gaze with his molten eyes as you hover over him. His fingers have tightened against your hips. For a moment, the two of you just breathe, separated by only a small distance. Close like this, you can see the long sweep of his sooty lashes. You find yourself caught on small features of his; a little scar, the curve of his cheekbone. 

You nudge closer, until you can feel the heat of his breath washing over your lips. Geralt holds you steady. His hands feel like your only stability, despite the brace of your thighs and the solidity of your knees against the mattress. His eyes flicker down to your lips.

Across the room, Asha sighs.

You go still. 

Geralt’s fingers flex on your hips as you pull back, but he lets you go. You settle into the space next to him. There’s heat in your cheeks, and you turn from him, stare at the wall instead. 

He sighs. The sheets rustle as he shifts.

The quiet that falls is still filled with sound: Asha’s soft breath, the slow chirp of the crickets in the grass, the wind’s whisper. 

“You don’t deserve it,” Geralt says into the dark. 

You stiffen. You know he is thinking of the village’s neglect, how dire their lack of warning could have been. Speaking into the dark is perhaps the only way he can bring himself to voice it. You let the tension seep from you.

“Neither do you,” you say softly.

Geralt doesn’t answer, doesn’t speak again.

You close your eyes and drift into sleep.

* * *

“The healer was right,” Geralt grumbles. “Your hound is a menace.” 

Asha’s splayed across his legs, her substantial weight pinning him down. You haven’t bothered to shoo her away. Geralt’s bandages were almost pristine when you’d checked them this morning, though he’d still winced when he pushed himself upright.

“You’re in her spot,” you point out, lifting your face into the sunbeam streaming in through the window, letting the warm glow of it bathe across your skin. It’s a crisp morning out, the chill sneaking in through the cracks of your windowpane, but the sun has risen gloriously bright and warm, the last breath of summer blessing your little home. 

Geralt mutters something derogatory under his breath. 

You arch an unimpressed brow, turning to look at him. You’ve been ensconced in the little nook by the window for the past half hour, carefully peeling thin slices off a carmine beet, the juice seeping down your fingers and puddling in your palms. Each thin slice goes into the salt spread in a pan like sand. 

“She’s quite a specimen,” Geralt says.

She is, you know, has the powerful build and the sleek coat of a purebred. Though the forest has settled into her, has sown the seeds of wild into her bones, it cannot be hidden. Asha runs with wolves now, sometimes, but her breeding will always betray her. 

“So I’ve been told,” you say, fingers tightening on the handle of your knife.

“Warhounds often are.”

You pause. “Spent some time at court then, have you, Witcher?”

“Unfortunately,” he says. “And apparently, so have you.”

“Unfortunately.”

Geralt goes quiet, but you can feel his eyes on you. Witchers are proficient with many weapons, you know, but you hadn’t thought a gaze could be one of them.

“Are you going to brood until I tell you more?”

“Considering it.”

“Silence is an odd interrogation technique,” you tell him.

“And yet here you are, filling it.”

That gives you pause. You slice another thin piece of beetroot, dropping it into the salt and then running the pad of your thumb against the keen edge of the blade. The juice of the beetroot pools crimson in the cradle of your palm. You whisper a quiet command; Asha rises, her muscular body an ode to power. She leaps from the bed and comes to you, curls at your feet. The warmth of her against you is a balm. 

The forest is singing, all creaking wood and stirring blades of grass, the flutes of birdsong whistling high in the air. The whisper of it pours through your shutters, seeps from the crack beneath your door. 

“I lived at court for just over a year,” you say. There’s no point in hiding it. The villagers all know, after all. You shift, rub a thumb subtly over the place on your hip where your skin goes rough like bark, ridged and wrinkled. “There’s not much more to it.”

There is, and you both know it. 

Geralt considers you. The morning sun catches on him, makes those cat eyes of his glow even more metallic than usual. You think of gold melted at the forge, funneled through molds to make little trinkets. 

“A year in court seems like it would feel a decade or two to me,” he tells you.

“More like three.”

His lips curl up into a hint of a smile that fades quickly. 

You go back to your beetroot and peel off another layer. It’s thin enough that the sun would leak through it should you hold it up to the window; nature’s stained glass. You set it into the salt and pull the rough crystals over it. 

The beetroot juice seeps through the salt, staining it claret. 

In the quiet that has fallen between the two of you, you can still hear the forest singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy easter and chag sameach!
> 
> i have been blown away by the response to this story and how sweet you all are - thank you so much!! i'm delighted to have my muse back on this. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed! sorry if the ending seemed a bit rough, i really needed to cut off before i ended up writing a 10k chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun pools over you, a warm pond of golden light. 

It warms the house despite the breeze stirring through your open shutters, a cool lick of wind that plays over your skin like a soft kiss. The forest breathes, the leaves fluttering with each exhale, sending the dappled sunlight dancing over the ground. You can hear the pulse of it, the forest song fading into a heartbeat as familiar as your own.

You hum to yourself. The gaps between the trees are still shaded, dark maws of space, the little saplings rising like teeth, sharp with growth. The forest will swallow you whole one day, you know. 

There is the faintest hint of movement in that velvet night space between the trees, and your hands slow, the knife heavy in your grasp. Asha nudges you, calls you back, her blocky head solid against your hip. “Nuisance,” you tell her, but you trail your fingertips over the velvet slip of her ears. The grumble that leaves her resonates like a summer storm thick with thunder. She nudges you again, her nose smudging cold through the thin fabric of your shift. 

“Nuisance,” you say again, but you are betrayed by the honeyed warmth of affection that lines your voice. She huffs and you relent. You slice off a small hunk of sausage, smeared greasy with slick fat, and give it to her. “Satisfied?” 

Her tail thumps against the floor, a whip crack of noise, and she licks at your fingers before nosing at you once more.

“I suppose not,” you say. You bump her with your hip. “But that’s quite enough. Go on then.” 

Asha grouses, a rumble of a sound, but she obeys. She pauses just long enough for you to lean down and press a kiss against the crown of her head. 

You dip your fingers into a nearby bowl of water to rinse them before returning to your task. The breeze trickles in through the window, tugs at your sleeves with playful fingers, but your knife is steady as it slides through the rest of the sausage. You pluck a bundle of fresh thyme from your shelves and crush the delicate leaves beneath the flat of the knife. The woody, earthen smell of it wafts up, a forest all its own. You breathe it in, this hint of the wild, and feel Geralt’s eyes upon you.

You don’t think you have words for it, for the sunscorch of his amber eyes and how they’ve burned themselves into the marrow of your bones. 

“Tell me, Witcher,” you say, “is breakfast so fascinating that you can’t look away? I know that food on the road leaves much to be desired, but this seems excessive.”

“It’s not breakfast that I’m looking at.”

You glance over your shoulder. 

In the daylight, even ensconced in the cradle of your bed and your worn, rumpled blankets, Geralt brings to mind the statues that stood proud in the summer-scented courtyards of the marquess’s estate. The breadth of him is mesmerizing, the slope of his shoulders a mountain range of muscle. 

Your gazes meet. Geralt’s eyes are tinder sparks, a flare of heat catching against the kindling of your desire, and the air thickens, goes syrupy at the edges. It’s the breath before a storm, the sultry promise of something on the horizon drawing near. You swallow. His golden eyes dip to the play of your throat, drag a trail of phantom touch across your skin. 

He stops cleaning his sword, his grip tightening around his broadsword’s hilt - your piece of the bargain struck, a trade for him remaining abed until Hadrian arrives - and you shift. You think of how his fingers would press indents into the plump of your thigh as he pulls you to him, as he settles the heat of your slick cunt against the thick line of his cock. The kindling catches alight low in your belly. 

Geralt inhales, his jaw sharpening as he grits his teeth. 

The sun glistens against him, catches on the thin sheen of sweat on his chest, and you focus on the swath of bandages across his chest. Miniscule blossoms of dark crimson have sprouted in the cotton, tiny clusters of ruby flowers.There are not many of them, but they are there. It dampens the edges of the heat. 

“Funny,” you say lightly, turning back to the cutting board, “because you look hungry.”

“I’ve no doubt you can sate my appetite.”

“Then I’d best finish making breakfast.”

Geralt grunts.

His eyes linger as you work. The pan nestled into the hearthfire spits as you drop the sausage into it, the thyme going crisp, the small leaves furling back onto themselves in a last bid of protection. Asha moves closer to the hearth, ever hopeful. You crack the dove eggs into the pan. She snuffles at the shells when you discard them, heaving a mournful sigh that has a smile flirting at your lips. 

“Here,” you tell Geralt, handing him a plate piled high, “eat.”

You wave off his thanks. As is your habit, you clean while you eat, stepping around Asha’s massive frame as she trails after you forlornly.

“I feed you,” you tell her, ignoring the way her velvet ears perk up at the sound of your voice. “Stop acting as if I don’t.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see the faintest flicker of a smile on Geralt’s lips.

It is not long until you are taking back an empty plate from Geralt. The sun has risen higher, the shadows shifting as it treks across the deep blue of the late morning sky. It glints off of Geralt’s broadsword, and you take a moment to appreciate the way his forearm bunches as he glides the cleaning rag against the flat of his sword, his thick fingers deft. 

You eye him meditatively. “I don’t suppose you’ll stay abed if I go tend the garden?”

He grunts.

“That’s not an answer,” you tell him, scooping up a basket. You should change, likely, but your chemise covers enough, and hearth has already spit soot-streaks onto it. 

He keeps at his sword, keeps those long, rhythmic strokes. 

You sigh. “Keep to the bed,” you tell him. “It will help with the pain, as I understand it.”

“Witchers are used to pain.”

“That doesn’t mean you should suffer it needlessly,” you say mildly. It is an assumption and overstep in the same breath, but you are not always kind enough nor wise enough to curb yourself. “Used to pain’ differs from ‘deserves pain’, and you do not deserve it, no matter what they tell you.”

His hands go still for a breath, his knuckles curving into hard peaks, whitening like snow-capped mountains. 

“I do not know if you are punishing yourself,” you say, “but if you are, consider who you are doing it for.”

Before he can respond, you dart out the door with Asha romping wild at your heels.

* * *

“Careful,” you say absently, tugging up another ruby red radish and shaking the thick loam off of it. The soil is still laden with the morning dew’s touch, sweetly damp and cool. You let your fingers sink home, curl them into the soil like roots to anchor you in the earth. You pinch the radish stem between your fingers and tug. “There’s cow parsnip nearby, it’ll give you an awful rash.”

“I suppose I should be used to that.”

You raise a brow. “To having an awful rash?”

Jaskier makes a deeply offended noise. “That seems uncalled for!”

You laugh, sitting back on your heels. You wipe at the sweat on the side of your neck. The dirt smears there, but you leave it for now. “What else was I supposed to think?”

The bard sputters. “Not that!”

You pull up another few radishes, twisting their leafy greens through your fingers. “What should you be used to, then, Jaskier?”

He peers down at you, his cerulean eyes gleaming like the sea waves beneath the afternoon sun. “The way you knew I was coming. Geralt’s impossible to sneak up on, what with his Witcher nonsense, the enhanced senses and all. Doesn’t stop him from pretending he can’t hear me when I’m talking to him, though.”

“Oh,” you say, “I hadn’t realized you were trying to sneak up on me.”

“I wasn’t,” Jaskier says, “but you seemed far away.”

You smooth the dirt back into place, covering the small divots that used to house the radishes. There are more radishes nearby, but it won’t hurt to harvest them another day. “I was, but the trees told me you were coming.” 

Jaskier eyes you, rolling a brass button between his deft fingers. He seems to be honoring the burgeoning season, his fine doublet the faded burnt orange of fallen autumn leaves. “Right,” he huffs, settling his hands on his hips. “Has anyone told you that you’re hard to read, woodwife? Your face, though pretty, is a mystery to me, and I cannot quite tell if you are serious.”

You bite down on your smile. “Oh, didn’t the villagers tell you about that, the trees and their gossip?”

“Well yes,” he says, pulling you to your feet when you hold out a hand. He braces you as you stumble. He’s broader than you thought, the cut of his clothes cloaking his apparent strength. “But they also told me that you feed the forest - wouldn’t say what, which is a bit unnerving, I’d be concerned about Geralt but he’s so thorny anything that eats him tends to spit him back out again - and that you’re part tree yourself, so you can see how it might get a little difficult to sort out.”

You scoop up your basket and tuck it into the crook of your hip. “Even if I could talk to trees, they wouldn’t have needed to tell me. You’re not quiet,” you say with a smile. “I think most would hear you coming. Is Hadrian inside?”

“Yes, he said something about how I should wait because of your hellbeast.” 

“He exaggerates. She’s likely running through the woods anyway.”

“Having seen the size of your hound, I thought I should defer to his knowledge.”

You nudge the door open with your foot. “Understandable, I suppose,” you say. You duck inside the house and Jaskier follows.

You pay your three visitors little mind as you put away the garden’s harvest. It’s a meager one, but that’s not uncommon at this time, too early for most fall crops to be fully grown. And meager does not mean poor; the radishes are rotund little things, gleaming under the layer of dirt, and the carrots are full bodied and the color of a setting sun. You wipe the dirt from them as best you can and then tuck some away. You glance at the bed. 

Hadrian is examining Geralt with careful fingers. 

The Witcher is stoic, but there’s a hint of pain tucked into the corner of his lips. You are sure he can feel your eyes, but he keeps his amber gaze trained on the foot of the bed. 

Hadrian moves with quick delicacy, checking at the whitening edges of the wound, where the skin is pulling tight with the promise of a thick scar. The very center of the gash is still wine red, deeply claret, the type of color that has teeth. You think again that none but a Witcher could have survived it. You know little of wounds, but you had known it was a terrible one as soon as you’d set eyes on it, and you have never seen something so perilous lose its relentless bite so quickly.

There’s a fragile intimacy to Hadrian’s probing fingers, and you glance away. You pull Jaskier - propped up on a small stool near the bed, plucking at his lute, his wide eyes darting between the strings and the river of stark stitches winding their way across Geralt’s torso - into some of your daily chores. He protests, but it’s half-hearted. 

You’ve just bundled the linens into the laundry tub when Hadrian comes outside. You’ve left Jaskier chattering at Roach as he brushes her, the horse clearly delighted by his presence.

Hadrian kneels beside you, helps you push the fabric down into the water, the cloth fading into something ethereal as it dampens, diaphanous and eerie. He hisses at the heat of it, pulling back with a curse. You laugh quietly and knead at the linens, the steaming water lapping at your wrists like waves against a shoreline. You blot your hands dry against your shift once the linens are sodden and sit back on your heels.

“What’s this?” you ask, leaning over and tugging at the ribbon wound around Hadrian’s ponytail. It slips like silk through his hair. It’s a pretty little thing, carefully embroidered, little clusters of sunshine bright calendula blossoms and bundles of sage stitched into the smooth fabric. “Are you being courted, healer?”

He brushes you away with his long, delicate fingers. “Stop that, gnat,” he says.

“I’ll consider that a yes. What’s their name?”

Hadrian ignores you, reaching past you for the washing bat. He wipes away the thin layer of dust that’s accumulated from beating out the linens before slipping it into the tub, spinning the washing around in a slow, wide circle. 

“The Witcher could ride,” he says after a moment, the click of the bat against the sides of the tub a steady beat that cuts through the forest’s song. “Not far, and the wound would likely open again, but if you wish it, he does not need to stay here.”

You hum quietly, watching the wisps of steam curl into the air to fade like smoke. “All of these years and yet you know me so little, it seems.”

He sighs. “I do not mean it as a slight,” he says. “I am only offering a choice that was not there before.”

“It is no choice.”

“I suspected as much.” 

He hands you the laundry bat and pushes to his feet, his lanky frame unfolding like a fan, a graceful flick of lean muscle. “I’ve left a few tins of salve inside. The way he heals is far beyond my understanding, but it is still a terrible wound, and they cannot hurt.”

“Alright.”

Hadrian studies you for a moment, pierces through you with his slate gaze, the color of the winter sea, when the whitecaps have teeth. “The forest may betray you one day,” he says.

You watch the laundry water, the swirl of fabric spectral. “Perhaps,” you say. “But not yet.”

Hadrian sighs. The sound is a forlorn winter breeze ghosting through bare branches. “Try to wait until he’s healed to fuck him.”

You laugh, the sound swelling up from somewhere deep inside. “I’ll try.”

“Where’s Jaskier?” Hadrian asks.

“Talking to the horse last I saw him,” you say, getting to your feet. “Help me with this.”

Between the two of you, it’s easy to carry the washtub to the forest’s edge. It’s the briefest taste of the wild, moss creeping high on slim tree trunks, mushrooms opening like flowers where they are nestled into the curve of roots. The last of the summer wildflowers are struggling, going crisp at the edges. The forest has little mercy. 

You switch the washing to your other tub, tuck the tallow soap and washboard in with the sodden fabric. 

“Do you want me to stay until you’re back?” Hadrian asks.

“No,” you say, hefting the second washtub up onto your hip as Hadrian tilts the other on its side, the water rushing out like a river, sluicing through the undergrowth and winding along networks of roots. “You can if you’d like, though. Take that back to the house.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Hadrian lilts, “right away.”

You swat at him. “Please.”

“Better,” he says, hoisting the tub up. “Be safe, gnat.” 

He trots back towards your house, the ribbon in his hair fluttering behind him like a ship’s sail. You watch him for a moment more, watch the way the sun catches on his charcoal hair. 

The forest sings as you step into the treeline. You weave your way across the cobwebs of roots that puncture through the thick loam, moss gleaming wet on their outstretched limbs. Sleek saplings whisper in the wind, swaying like dancers. Something chitters in the undergrowth, the sound spiraling high in agitation, a warning in a language far beyond your tongue. 

Sunlight cascades through gaps in the canopy, anoints the forest floor with a golden kiss. Small flowers are speckled through the undergrowth, their blossoms turned up in worship, little faces raised to the sun. You venture deeper into the forest, the ancient trees swelling above you. They creak and groan in the wind, sleeping giants tossing in their beds. 

The hair at the nape of your neck is damp with sweat. You heft the washtub higher, ignoring the moan of your muscles. You can hear the stream now, the quiet burble of it, and know it will not be long.

The glen is a sumptuous one, teeming with greenery even as autumn sets in, the ferns fat with fronds, fed by the stream’s sweet water. You kneel at the stream’s edge and get to work. 

You sing to yourself as you scrub at the washing, the stream a steadfast companion. The forest murmurs around you. 

You slip into the stream once the washing is done, leaving your dirty shift on the bank. The water enfolds you with icy fingers. It’s a chill bite of sensation against your sweat-slick skin, something that edges on gnawing, but it fades into something kinder. You turn your face towards the canopy and let the water flow over you like a blessing.

Something crashes in the underbrush.

You duck low in the water, scanning the edges of the glen as the rustling grows louder. Your dagger is tucked beneath your shift on the shore. 

The ferns whisper in the wind, and then there is something hurtling from the undergrowth, massive and lightning quick, and as it plummets into the stream, you spit out scream that’s half curse. Just as the water surges around it, you catch sight of a familiar brindled pattern, and then the hound is on you.

“You’re the worst,” you tell Asha, shoving water at her.

She snuffles happily, ducking her muzzle beneath the water.

“Fine,” you say, “we’re going home.” You wade to the shore and put on a damp chemise, shoving your dirty one under the washboard before piling the rest of the washing in. “C’mon,” you call. 

Asha trots next to you as you wind your way back through the labyrinth of the woods, through the drape of moss and the scratch of the pricker bushes. 

“Should we visit?” you ask her. She pants, nudging at you to get you around a sapling. “I saw it, thank you.”

The forest opens into the cozy meadow your home is tucked into. You can see the smoke wisping out from your chimney steadily, fading into the afternoon sky. The shutters are flung wide; one of them sways in the breeze, the hinges creaking. You consider your home for a moment, and then you put down the washtub and walk back into the forest. 

It is a familiar path. You think you could walk it blindfolded, twisted roots and eroding soil and sprouting trees bedamned. The ferns thicken, their fronds trailing over you like fingers, catching at your hair. You push your way through them, duck beneath their overgrown greenery, and then - they fall away.

You step into the small meadow, a little ring of wildflowers and swaying tall grass with a small copse of trees in the center. The forest prowls along the edge of it with wild roots, waiting for an opening.

The trees are humming. 

It’s a slow, soft sound, rippling through you like a lullaby. It draws you near, lures you close to the copse, to the twisted trees with their wrinkled, worn bark, their branches arcing high. The soil at their roots shifts, rises and falls as if they’re breathing.

You breathe with them. 

They whisper to you, their leaves tracing across your cheek, across the back of your hand, fluttering over you like fingertips. The sunlight glistens against the silver sheen of their leaves, the light draping warm over you. Things go soft at the edges, like morning mist swathing the meadow when you first rise. You murmur to the trees.

The sun begins to dip in the sky, a steady downhill march. You rise from your bed of roots, skim your fingers against a hint of moss cushioning the rough scrape of bark. 

You press a farewell kiss against the trunk, against the cheekbone curve of it, and the tree croons.

It is a long, lonely walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again i come before you after much time apart, saying hey what's going on if anyone finds my executive functioning can you please mail it back to me i kinda need it!!
> 
> i knew where i wanted to go with this chapter and simply couldn't get it out of my head in a way that i was content with until now. such is the life. hopefully it was worth the wait!
> 
> considering renaming this story 'staring contest' bc these two are just. like that. 
> 
> i hope you all continue to be safe!


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